


To Tom Branson, From Tom Branson

by downtonarry



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fic Exchange, Sybil x Tom Valentine Exchange 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtonarry/pseuds/downtonarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my offering to obsessivewritingdisorder for the Tumblr Valentine's Day Sybil/Tom exchange! Here was their prompt: "Feminist author Sybil writes under the pen name Tom Branson until the actual Tom Branson sees these articles and writes to the newspaper to see whats up. He gets a reply from Sybil and after some flirting they go for dinner."</p><p>I tried to stay fairly close to these lines, but there's also a big fat smut scene at the end of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Tom Branson, From Tom Branson

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this got so long. I got very carried away. I hope you enjoy!

_“...which is why it’s time to move past just average models, even plus size models. It’s time to present a variety of models of...”_

  
    Tom closed the paper. It always gave him the willies to read these articles. It’s not that he disagreed with the articles (well, usually), but there was just something strange about it. The articles were very heavily feminist, and touched on a lot of other social issues, but they were written by a man. Certainly a man could write about these things if done appropriately, but it seemed a bit curious. Not exactly his business to be putting his two cents in when women were always fighting to break into different careers. He never showed his face either. The articles were well-received by some readers of the paper, that was for sure, but he guessed there were people that disagreed with him, based on some of the letters to the editor. All that, though, he could live with, odd as it was. What was so strange though, was that the author shared the same name as him. Every week, there it was, Tom Branson.

  
    It’s not that it was a terrible, horrible thing. It could be slightly frustrating. His friends always made fun of him, and a few were convinced he really was the author. When he was out in public, it didn’t matter, except for a few times when workers like bank tellers asked him if he was the author of “those intriguing articles in _The Guardian_.” Tom Branson had to be a pretty common name. He was sure there were others who had his name. Any one of them could be the real Tom Branson.

  
    Then again, it could be a fake name. Tom wrote articles for the _The Irish Times_ often, just little columns here and there, but he didn’t use his real name. Sometimes he could get a little fiery, and honestly, at this point in his life, he didn’t want anyone really associating the works with him. He could go into real fire and brimstone about all the problems still in Ireland. It was part of the reason why he left, for the time being, even though he loved Ireland deeply. London was a good place to get away from it all, at least for awhile. He had a good job at a mechanic’s shop, where they dealt mostly with specialty foreign cars. Tom had never gone to school for journalism or anything like that, instead opting for a career in something more solid. Journalism was always the dream, but it wasn’t realistic. His amateur articles would do for now.  
    He did wonder, though, if this person was like him. It certainly could be a fake name. It was bland and nondescript, but not enough to be a forgettable name. People knew and remembered it, but it was pretty untraceable, especially in a city as large as London.

 

  
~

  
     _“...and with that, it’s easy to see why it’s imperative to look at the intersectionality of this issue...”_

  
    Tom Branson made a good point, Tom mused as he took a sip of tea before he headed off for work. They seemed to get rather bogged down in buzzwords, but it was pretty important stuff this guy was whipping out. Tom considered writing to the paper asking this guy his opinions. He probably got a bunch of letters. He never answered any in his columns, so people often sent letters to the editor. He wasn’t that invested in this guy’s work, but he was tempted. He wasn’t that sure what he would say, but he hoped, if anything, Tom Branson would get a laugh out of hearing from another Tom Branson. He’d look up the email address to the paper when he got home from work.

  
~

  
    Sybil yawned and clasped her coffee mug tighter. It was too early, but she had to work on her latest article before class. There were hoards of email to wade through, as usual, so she took a glance through them before she got going. You had to have a pretty thick skin to write about what she did. Honestly, most of the time, it was just either angry men saying she was a disgrace to men to write about feminism, and how feminism wasn’t real or needed, or it was angry women saying she shouldn’t be pushing into their space talking about their issues. It was an interesting little experiment, using a pen name. It hadn’t been necessary to use a man’s, really. She could have easily used a woman’s. The name Tom Branson itself had no meaning to her whatsoever, just a name chosen at random. That was part of the fun, though. She really, truly worked hard on her ideas, and she hoped people would appreciate them if she was using a female name, but using a man’s name had thrown people for such a loop. Really quite interesting indeed.

  
    Most of the emails were the same boring fussing. She’d have to hurry up and get writing, if she wanted enough time to shower and make breakfast. The nursing program was rigorous, and she always suffered if she didn’t eat before she went to class. This writing was just a little thing on the side, combining something she was passionate about with a bit of fun. She was about to log off, when an email caught her eye.

  
     _“To Tom Branson, from Tom Branson”_

  
    Hm. Okay, just this one.

  
   _“Hello,_

  
 _Honestly, I’ve never written to someone from the paper before. I’m curious about your motives behind your work. You’re clearly passionate—what brought you to that point? As a reader, I’m curious as to why you don’t tell us anything about yourself. Maybe you like the true anonymity, I can understand that. The trouble is, you’re not being taken seriously by not explaining yourself. Believe me, in this day and age, people love transparency. Regardless, I think you do make some good points that I like. Maybe you’ll respond and we can talk about that._

  
_I think what I’m getting at though, is that I feel a lot like you. We have quite a fucked up world full of injustice and I love that you’re trying to help, even if it’s just a little. I completely think men should be feminists. I hope that I am one. And it’s funny, reading your column every week, because I hear myself in it. And even more funny, because we appear to have the same name. Just a coincidence but curious nonetheless._

  
_I understand if you don’t answer and would rather retain your mystique. Have a good day._

  
_Tom”_

  
    There was a quote that read “ _The hearth is a good anchor_ ” underneath and all his details, obviously things that were tacked on to the end of all his emails. He worked at some sort of automotive place. A quick Google search of the quote traced it back to some offhand Irish Catholic source. Compelling enough. She’d definitely answer the message tonight, when she had time. She wanted to know what this coincidental Irish Catholic Feminist had to say.

  
~

  
    Tom was exhausted. The day had been long, and sweaty, and he needed a shower desperately. He loosened his shirt, then elected to take it off altogether before flopping on his couch, flipping on the telly instead. As much as the shower called out to him, that involved getting up. Vehicles had been rolling in all day, and each one seemed almost inexplicably treated like rubbish. It had been grimy and Tom had been run off his toes. It was days like this that Tom wondered why he let a small hobby through college turn into a career. Sitting at a desk would be so much nicer, although he supposed the harder labour kept him in shape.

  
    The celebrity chef on the television soothingly blathered on about how to properly stuff a Cornish hen, and Tom found himself being lulled into a dozy nap. His phone buzzed, though, jerking him awake. The text reminded him he hadn’t checked his phone or email all day. There was a handful of both. The most interesting one was “ _Re: To Tom Branson, from Tom Branson._ ” Tom was surprised Tom Branson had answered. This should prove interesting.

  
  _“Hello Tom,_

  
 _I’m glad I’ve struck a chord. You may have guessed, I am shy about my identity. I have my reasons for wishing for the public not to know any more about me._

  
_I get a lot of responses from people who wish to know more, like you. Most are substantially angrier with my ideas, but you get the gist.  I am only an aspiring writer, if I am honest. I don’t wish to attach myself to these columns now, regardless of how right I feel I am in them. I don’t want to look back in twenty years and have my name immortalized forever on something written in a juvenile manner. I hope that explains myself well enough for you._

  
_I don’t mind discussing things with people, especially ones that approach in a respectful matter (it doesn’t hurt that we appear to be like-minded, based on what you’ve said). Any topic you’d like expanded on, please go on. I’m interested to hear your politics._

  
_Oh, and one last note. Although I don’t feel at liberty to give my real name, please know we are ever more of a coincidence than you think. Tom Branson is a pen name, chosen completely at random! What a way to meet, I suppose._

  
_Until we speak again,_

  
_S.”_

  
    Well. Tom would just have to find something to talk about with this S, he supposed. He still had the paper from this morning, and more articles could be found on online archives. He had some work to do for this evening, and no time to waste. There was a shower waiting for him.

  
~

  
   _“...so hopefully you can understand why I think that there’s a level of how far we can gender-neutralize children before we completely confuse them. I hope I’ve made sense, somewhat._

  
 _I  think I should probably cut myself off there before I prattle on endlessly. There is a rugby game with my name on it in a few minutes anyway. Let me know if you ever feel you want to talk about this face to face. Sometimes I feel like I can articulate myself better in person._

  
_Have a good night,_

  
_Tom”_

  
    Sybil smiled. It had been a few weeks since herself and the true Tom Branson had started corresponding, and she now waited eagerly for his reply. Yes, they debated, and it was lively. They didn’t always agree, and it could get heavily heated, but it wasn’t ever in an angry or mean. Sybil loved having this person to spar with. Her family was so traditional, and they couldn’t care less about her opinions. It wasn’t that they disagreed, exactly, but they were so stuck in their ways that they just didn’t want to listen to begin with, even her sisters. If her family ever knew she was writing this for a major paper, they might have a small heart attack, collectively.

  
    It wasn’t just that she liked having a debate partner. She liked slowly unearthing little things about this Tom’s life. She’d heard of this happening before, but she knew she had a little crush on the man behind the screen. A bit of a slippery slope, she knew, but it was nice, regardless. She was giving tiny clues about herself as well, and it almost seemed like Tom might like her back, at least a little bit. She was quite certain he understood that she was a woman, by now, and even if he didn’t, he did seem interested. This was the first time he’d offered to see her, though, and she knew it was a leap. He seemed like a very forward person, but not the sort to push her at all. He was reaching out, and trying to do it as delicately as possible. Sybil wanted to. She really did. She sat poised for a moment, hands hovering over the keyboard. She’d do it. She wanted to know what he was really like, she really did. What was the harm of one reader knowing her identity?

  
  _“Hi Tom,_

  
 _I think you may be right. Proper conversations are a great thing for truly expressing what we want to say. I would like to continue this conversation. We can meet at Mes Amis for supper, on maybe Friday or Saturday, if that works for you. It’s Lebanese food, and pretty good. I go there a lot with a handful of my friends quite frequently._

  
_If you’d like to, let me know. I’ll put the reservation under “Crawley,” so you know who to ask for when you get to the restaurant. I would say seven is probably a good time for me to have supper._

  
_I hope to hear from you soon,_

  
_S.”_

  
~

  
    Tom was anxious. This place was out of the way. Very out of the way. He wasn’t even sure he had the right place, honestly. S. had said Lebanese food, but this place looked almost Mexican in style, as he approached it. It was even more so when he stepped inside, and it was very tiny. He hoped desperately he hadn’t read S. wrong. He wouldn’t be offended or angry if they were a man, far from it. But just the way S. talked, just seemed like they were firmly footed in feminist knowledge from a woman’s perspective. He didn’t really know what he was getting at, but he felt like he liked the mysterious person a bit. They were so eloquent and thoughtful and political, all things Tom adored. Someone perfect for him. It was rather stupid, but he almost hoped tonight would go a bit like a fairy story and they’d end up the perfect couple for each other.

  
    “I’m here for Crawley, party of two?” Tom straightened out his shirt. He knew he’d probably dressed up too much, but that seemed to be all part of his fantasy. He had wanted to look nice.

  
    “Oh, yes, right over here.” The server guided Tom through the tiny restaurant, which was packed. And there, right in the corner, was S. A woman, yes. And, oh, God, a beautiful woman. Tom could say with all honesty she was the most perfect woman he’d ever seen. She had quite long dark hair, tied up in some sort of ponytail updo thing, but he couldn’t stop staring at her face. He didn’t know quite how to describe it, other than perfect. Blue eyes, strong, flawless eyebrows, full lips. Unbelievable. His fantasy was coming true. He shook himself back to reality.

  
    “Tom Branson.” He offered his hand, feeling awkward and stiff.

  
    She got up and shook his hand. “Excellent to meet you, Tom Branson. I’m Tom Branson. All my friends call me Sybil.” She laughed lightly.

  
    “Sybil.” Tom exhaled slowly.

  
    “You can sit down.”

  
    He was making an ass out of himself. He kicked himself mentally for staring too much and sat down. “The face behind the paper.”

  
    “That’s me. You know, I was expecting an Irishman, but part of me almost wondered if I was making that up.”

  
    “What made you think I was an Irishman?” Tom leaned in slightly closer. He could swear Sybil was staring at him almost as intensely.

  
    “The quote you tack to the end of all your emails. It’s from _The Hidden Ireland_ , is it not?”

  
    “You got Irish out of that?”

  
    “Well, you like a lot of other Irish things, your rugby and that. Excuse me if I’m stereotyping you.” Sybil looked down and looked slightly sheepish.

  
    “Not at all. I’m very proud of my Irish heritage. It means a lot to me. I’m a pretty firm Irish Nationalist.”

  
    “Why are you here, then?”

  
    “Wanted to live a bit freely while I’m still young. I’m very interested, now, though. Why do you write under a male pen name?”

  
    “It was an experiment to see how people react, that’s all.”

  
    “Bit stupid.”

  
    Sybil raised her eyebrows. “Bit stupid for an Irish Nationalist to live in England.” Sybil primly opened her menu and looked at it, smirking slightly.

  
    Tom also raised his eyebrows. She was sharp and he loved it. “I suppose you’ve got me there. This is quite a place, really. Swanky. How did you find out about it?”

  
    “My sister told me, her husband has a lot of connections and does a lot of schmoozing. She doesn’t like it herself. It isn’t really swanky, though. Quite a hole in the wall, but a charming one.”

  
    Tom looked at the menu prices. They must have different ideas of what swanky meant. “What’s your background? I’m curious.”

  
    “I come from a long line of collapsed aristocracy. We’re just rich now. My father deals with land. My mother and sisters sit on their tuffets. I myself am in school to be a nurse.”

  
    More interesting surprises. “What made you want to be that?”

  
    “I’ve always wanted to help people. It’s felt like a calling. Now you know why I feel like quite an amateur, thought, when it comes to my writing.”

  
    “I think you’re quite good. I dabble in it myself.”

  
    Sybil leaned further forward, ready for more information on this topic. Tom finally became aware they weren’t here to talk about the unnecessary gendering of children, but rather, that they were on a date. Sybil had known it, but he hadn’t. He had hoped, but he hadn’t known for sure. He tried as carefully as he could to explain his own writing, and his plans and dreams surrounding it. Sybil gently put her hand over his own as he explained himself, and he felt himself grow helpless because of her touch. God, she was lovely.

  
    They ordered their food, but by the time it arrived, it barely mattered. Food only got in the way of all the talking they were doing. It was good, Tom had to admit when he had chances to eat some amidst their chatter. It was mostly about their lives, peppered here and there with a recent social issue from the news, but the conversation just never seemed to stop. They just seemed to get along so _well_. There was a spark, a real connection, and Tom could tell they both knew it. He wanted desperately to ask her back to his flat after, but refrained from doing so. She was a highly feminist woman. He didn’t want to offend her by making himself look like a nasty pig out to get her body and that’s it.

  
    “Tom?”

  
    Tom broke away from his thoughts. “Yes?”

  
    “Did you want to come round to my flat after we finish up here for some coffee?”

  
    Tom tried very hard to stop his mouth from falling open. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  
    “Then I think I’m very nearly done. By the looks of it, you are too.”

  
    “Yes. Good choice of restaurant, by the way,” Tom smiled. “I quite enjoyed it.”

  
    “I’m glad to hear it.”

  
~

  
    Sybil couldn’t believe herself. She hadn’t intended to go so far as to invite anyone back to her flat. Not whatsoever. She’d told herself before she left for the date that if she liked the man, she’d play it a bit coy. She had been with very few men in her life, so she didn’t want to rush into anything.

  
    Tom, though. She hadn’t truly been expecting someone so fit. She had been hopeful that he would be at least a little rugged and handsome, as someone working with cars all day would have to be at least somewhat strong, but she wasn’t expecting someone quite so classically good-looking. He was presently looking around the lounge of the flat, asking questions about the photos of various family members peppering the wall. He didn’t seem to be asking just out of politeness, but rather out of genuine interest. Family is important to him, Sybil noted with approval.

  
    “Tom?” Sybil walked over and touched his arm. He turned and smiled warmly at her, and she felt herself melt a little more. She had intended to ask him if she should put the kettle on now for a drink, but she instead leaned in and gave him a kiss. He responded in turn, and before Sybil could think, their tongues were entwined. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in, and Sybil let him take over.

  
    As a rule, she generally liked being a bit more of a dominant person, relationship-wise. She liked calling a lot of the shots, and she didn’t like not feeling in control of her own body and person. But this, this was alright. He ran his fingers up underneath the back of her shirt, making her shiver. A moment later, she felt her bra fall open. Ah, so that was his plan. Cheeky bugger. She helped remove it completely, which wasn’t the most graceful action, but it got the job done. He moved his hands around over to the front of her and gently started caressing her breasts. That felt very, _very_ nice. He was very kind to them, not the sort that just squeezes and pinches, like they’re tuning a radio. She kissed down his jawbone to his neck, and she heard him make a sound of pleasure.

  
    “If we want to go to my room...” Sybil tried carefully. He was letting her make this decision for them, which was fine by her. He seemed to whimper slightly, nodding his head yes in agreement. She took his hand and led him to her room, which was admittedly a bit messy from trying to sort out what she was going to wear for the supper. She swept the clothing off her bed into the chair, and Tom raised his eyebrows.

  
    “We’re getting right to it, then?” He chucked, and Sybil felt a bit silly.

  
    “Well, I supposed this is where most of the action would occur, yes.”

  
    “Speaking of that.” Tom went back to their makeout session, lifting her top a little.

  
    “It’s only fair if yours comes off too.” Sybil smirked, waiting for him to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. He did so, and my goodness, wasn’t he thick and muscular. More than she even hoped. She returned the favour, as per the deal, and they both stood in awe of each other for a moment.

  
    “You can touch them.” Tom meant his pecs, and he grinned impishly as he said it. She did so, and they were certainly firm. He went back to his previous business of stroking and playing with her breasts, but it somehow seemed much more intimate when they were on display. Sybil felt herself growing very warm down south, and she wanted it dealt with. At the rate they were going, Tom would probably be happy to oblige. She led his hands away from her chest and down to the button of her trousers. He understood, and unbuttoned them, letting a hand slide in between her legs. There, now that was perfect. He didn’t seem to  mind that she didn’t shave herself there, something she thought was a ridiculous double standard placed on women. It was a bit of a tight fit, so she let her trousers drop to the floor, along with her panties. Tom looked a little surprised at how forward he was being, but judging by the bulge in his trousers, it was perfectly welcome. It looked like it was aching to be free, so she popped the button on Tom’s trousers as well.

  
    He shuffled out of the rest of his clothing quickly, getting antsy. That always seemed to be the way with men. Always wanting to get the big show on the road. To be honest, Sybil wanted to pretty strongly as well. Tom sat down on the bed, and Sybil went over to her dresser and retrieved what they’d need. Tom was starting to touch himself a bit on the bed, and Sybil hurried back over and straddled his lap, taking over the long strokes of his member. Tom let out a sigh that caught in his throat, and dropped his hands to the bed to let Sybil work her magic. He began to shake a little bit, and she became aware he was already a little close, so she stopped and started touching herself instead. Tom leaned back and watched the show, and he kept raising his hand to touch either her or himself, but Sybil put his hand down each time.

  
    “In a minute, Tom.” She waited until she was good and wet before she rubbed herself against his cock, but when she did, he let out a long moan.

  
    “Jesus Christ, Sybil. I’m dyin’ over here.”

  
    “Lay down.” Sybil gently gave his chest a little push, and Tom obediently lay down, his legs still dangling over the edge of the bed. Sybil considered giving his length a long lick before getting down to business, but decided she’d save that treat for their next meeting. Instead, she put a condom on him, making sure to put it on slowly and luxuriously.

  
    He blinked up at her, clearly more than ready to go. His cheeks were flushed and he was already a bit sweaty, and Sybil guessed she was the same way. She slid onto him, and he cried out in bliss. The next part was the easy part. They began to work up a rhythm of rocking back and forth, Tom’s large hands clinging to her hips. He was getting too close again, far faster than she, so Sybil moved one of those big hands to her clit and he began to rub it. There we go. Sybil let out breathy sighs as she also felt her orgasm build up. This was it. She screamed a bit as she reached her peak, and without meaning to, heard herself shout out “ _Tom Branson!_ ”

  
    Tom stopped and looked up, trying hard not to laugh. “Both names, eh?”

  
    Sybil let out a few deep breaths. “Just came over me. It’s a good name. You can keep going.”

  
    Tom finished up a few moments later, letting out some manly noises, and Sybil crawled off him, settling beside him on the bed. Tom reached his arm around to cuddle, and Sybil fell into his warm grasp.

  
    “Well, Mr. Branson. I say we had a very successful first meeting. I’d say you learned everything about me and more.”

  
    “I suppose your secret is out, Tom Branson,” Tom laughed lightly. “I don’t suppose we ever got to discuss your articles.”

  
    “We’ve got time now. Where did you want to start?”  
  
      
  
      
      
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
